


If Wishes Were...

by Hellesgift



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-23
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hellesgift/pseuds/Hellesgift





	1. Chapter 1

"Dean, make a wish!"  Sam shouted, because if Dean was going to bleed all over the damn altar, completing the ritual they'd been trying to stop before the demon-worshipers showed up, they at least deserved to benefit from it.  The demonists were surprisingly resilient for a bunch of intellectual weenies and drunken fratboys, and now that Dean had decided to swoon like a maiden, Sam was having some trouble holding them off.  "A wish or a supplication or whatever, Dean!  Get us out of here!" he yelled again, glancing over to check that Dean was still conscious.  

He was, but barely.  Dean's eyes were kind of rolled up in that no-pupil, bad way that Sam was far too familiar with, and although Sam was pretty sure it wasn't arterial bleeding, there seemed to be more blood on Dean's outside than could be good for his insides.  If Dean could just wish _himself_ out of this, Sam was sure--well, pretty sure--that he could handle the forces of dark-robedness himself.  He yelled again, just Dean's name this time because the guy in front of him--Professor Hallicourt, his brain reminded him _uselessly_ , since it had met Hallicourt before and hadn't noticed his _obvious evilness_ then--was swinging a wicked-looking serrated dagger at him.  

From behind him, he heard Dean cough once and then say, remarkably clearly for someone who'd been strangled before the knife-work started, "Car."  

Oh yeah, _that_ was helpful.  They'd left the impala outside the compound, and there was no way Sam could get out, get the car, navigate over the formal gardens and rolled lawn into the courtyard, and get back to save Dean's stupid self.  He tried to express that thought through a succinct "Damn it, Dean!" but his next glance over his shoulder showed that Dean was out for the count.  No one to make a wish on the bloody altar now, damn all.  

For such a weedy, tweedy-looking guy, Hallicourt was pretty impressive with a blade.  Sam blocked the next strike and managed to wrest the dagger from him, turning to throw it with the best accuracy he could manage at the bastard who was trying to get to Dean.  It hit hilt first--always hard to figure the weight of an unknown blade--but it also hit the guy between the eyes, and he fell hard.  Sam turned around in time to duck under Hallicourt’s badly telegraphed punch, and then heard a shout from the back of the crowd.

The mass of black-clad worshipers in front of him shifted suddenly, like a flock of starlings banking together, and Sam managed to KO Hallicourt while watching as the other worshipers froze.  With unexpected precision, the crowd of students and teachers split, peeling open from the back of the crowd toward the front, like a demon-follower-zipper. As Sam watched, shocked, the precision broke and the assembled assembly suddenly realized that they had homework or grades due.  Within seconds, the courtyard was empty, except for a few cloaks that were scattered in the retreat.

Looking up, Sam couldn't actually convince himself that things had gotten better.  Not when he saw who--or what--was walking toward him.

Sam stood up straighter and winced when the man stopped in front of him.  Jesus, the guy had to be even taller than Sam.  Six foot six or more, built like a tank, black as night with eyes reflecting weirdly silver in the moonlight.  The whole 'black leather pants silver buckle black leather vest to show off my amazing arm muscles' thing just seemed excessive, when the whole package was considered together.  "Okay, sheesh...I'm intimidated," Sam muttered, shifting his grip on his knife.  If this was one of the demon's minions, she should have brought him out from the beginning...they never would have taken the gig.

The huge man took another step forward, and Sam forced himself to hold his ground.  "Leave him alone," he said as firmly as he could, looking up into someone's eyes for the first time in...well, a while.  "You'll have to go through me--" _unfortunate phrasing_ "because you're not getting--"

"Dean," the man said, and something in his voice sounded actually concerned.  But the look in his eyes was entirely proprietary, and Sam suddenly wondered if this was collection time, if Dean was somehow on the hook for more than blood.

"No, you can't--"

"Of course I can," the man said, and his voice rumbled so low it was almost unintelligible.  "He's mine."

Sam must have twitched or something at that statement, because the... _guy?...demon-spawn?...lovechild of wrestling and International Male?_...lifted his gaze from Dean for the first time since he'd spoken.  

"I don't want to hurt you," he growled, and Sam could swear it actually vibrated the ground, "because he wouldn't want me to.  But I need to help him," in that voice it sounded like an inalienable fact, "and if I have to 'go through you' I will."

Sam was not having the best of evenings, but he would totally fight this guy if he had to...except, if the man-mountain actually wanted to help Dean, fighting him was counterproductive.  Sam prided himself on being the Winchester brother who could compute that sort of thing without getting hit in the head.  He stepped back, half turning toward Dean while still keeping his eye on the stranger.  

The new guy obviously had no such concerns about his own safety. Sam felt himself immediately forgotten as a few long, leather-clad strides brought the stranger to Dean's side.  Someone that big shouldn't be able to kneel so quickly and so gracefully without some effort (Sam should know), but the stranger was entirely focused on Dean as he dropped smoothly beside Dean’s unconscious form.  Long-fingered, huge hands reached out, one to cradle Dean's face and the other to find the still-bleeding wound in his upper arm.  Sam was caught by the contrast between the stranger's hand and the bloodloss-white skin underneath it.  It helped him ignore the fact that this guy could _fucking_ _palm Dean's head_.  

_ Big _ , Sam thought again.  _Damn_.

"Shirt!" the guy snarled over his shoulder, and Sam thought, _'yeah, shit is right'_ before processing the 'r'.  

Shirt. Right.  Leather, though impressive and fully in line with a male-model cum demon-of-the-night gig, was not all that useful for staunching wounds.  Sam pulled off his jacket and slipped out of his shirt, draping the jacket over Dean's legs as the stranger made a pad of the shirt's material and pressed it tightly to Dean's arm.  Before he could be asked, Sam slipped off his belt, too, and the stranger took it like a doctor receiving a scalpel from a nurse, as if he completely expected Sam to stand over his shoulder and help him minister to his brother.

Which, of course, Sam _would_ , but it was kind of annoying nonetheless.

He forgot all of that when Dean shifted in pain under the stranger's hands and slowly dragged open his eyes.  He had that wild, confused look of someone who wasn't going to stay conscious long, but he tried to struggle out of the stranger's grasp, moaning, "Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean, I'm here," he said, doing the tall-guy-kneeling thing as gracefully as he could.  Dean's hand latched onto his shirt with desperation.  "It's okay, Dean, it's--"

"You okay?"  The question was slurred, Dean's eyes already rolling back up, but Sam gripped his good shoulder hard in response.

"Yeah, I'm okay.  You're gonna be fine.  We'll get you--"  He stopped when he realized he was somehow including the stranger in his plans...and also when he realized Dean was out again.  Before he could process either of these facts, the stranger was threading his arms under Dean's body, lifting him gently until he was cradled against the massive leather-clad chest.  Dean's breathing hitched in pain, and his eyes fluttered, but his only other move was to turn his head into the body holding him.  He sighed something sibilant, breathing in deeply and then falling back into full unconsciousness.

The stranger stood easily, Dean's body draped across his arms, and Sam had a second impression of "Jesus, _big_ " because Dean was not small, but he looked like a kid in this guy's arms.  

Dean looked almost fragile in the _huge freaking arms_ of a possibly-demonic stranger who was about to carry him god-or-rather-demon-knew where, Sam realized.

"No!" he grunted, reaching out toward his brother. 

"We need to get him to safety," the deep voice stated implacably.

Yes, but...well, at least they were both included in the 'need' statements, now, and Sam calculated the whole "fight the probable-demonic-minion now while Dean is still at risk or wait and get beaten to a pulp by the monster later" equation in a second.  

"Um...the car's that way.  Dean left her behind the copse of trees."  Sam felt a little stupid, falling into Dean's verbal ticks in relation to an inanimate object, but just at the moment it was kind of nice to think of the impala as a third member of the team.  He felt even stupider as the stranger stared down at him, something unreadable in the odd silver eyes.

The stranger looked at him for a long moment, and then, unbelievably, chuckled.  "Right."  He returned his gaze (Sam would swear with _fondness_ ) to the man he held in his arms.  "Three tons of Detroit steel, five hundred horses, and a lifetime of heavy metal and hard rock..."  

White teeth flashed as the stranger smiled, murmuring lovingly to Dean, "What made you think I'd be female?"

Wait.

_ Wait.  **What**? _

Sam didn't have time to splutter "Dean wished his car into YOU?" or whatever would have been his question, because in reaching automatically to pick up his jacket that had fallen off of Dean's legs, he saw more blood. Another wound, dammit, one that Dean had probably tried to keep hidden.

That had to take precedence over a crazy wish that seemed to have anthropomorphized Dean's car to a ridiculous degree.  Shelving the topic, at least momentarily, Sam jerked his head back toward the neo-gothic monstrosity that the fraternity had built to impress coeds and summon demons.  "We need to take a look at his injuries.  There've got to be beds up there."  If Sam knew fratboys, and unfortunately he did, there would be boudoirs straight out of the playboy mansion.  With kegs.

The...Jesus, the _car_?...nodded brusquely, striding toward the house with no comment.  Sam had to scramble a little to catch up: those extra few inches seemed to be all in the guy's legs (Sam resolutely pushed away the nagging question that suddenly arose. After all, Sam more than anyone knew that height did not always correlate with…other things.)  

He didn't remember Dean ever scrambling to keep up with _him_ , which either meant that Sam had adjusted his stride or just naturally ambled...or Dean had more practice.  

Whatever.  Very much _not_ pertinent at this juncture.  Although better than considering the size issue. 

When they got to the house and the car (Sam was going to have to come up with a name) had kicked down the door in an admittedly impressive display of focused violence, Sam led the way upstairs.  He was not at all surprised to find some nicely equipped bedrooms.  The chains looked a little too real and the black silk sheets were frankly a cliché, but the bed was firm and high, which would help as they tried to stop the bleeding.

Breaking his own records for denial, Sam managed not to watch as Dean's body was gently placed on the bed, his hand falling limply to the side and his skin far too pale against the black sheets.  What with the black-leather-clad gorgeous muscledness of...Jesus, it needed a _name_...and the whole limp, pale beauty that Sam was _not_ noticing about Dean, it looked like something straight out of a gothic novel.  A gay, gothic novel.  And Sam only knew those existed because of that one friend of Jess's, thank you very much.  It's not like he had read any more than he needed to; just enough to keep up with the fun new games Jess had suddenly suggested.

While his brain was bringing up the worst possible distractions to keep him from becoming a gibbering wreck, Sam's hands were movingly quickly and surely over Dean's injuries.  A few tense, bloody moments in, Sam was pleased to discover that the impala made a darn good nurse--for a _car_ \--removing Dean's clothes carefully, applying pressure, and checking Dean's pulse with fingers that looked like they could hold both of Dean's wrists in one hand...another image Sam immediately repressed.  

For once, Dean cooperated, staying unconscious and, miracle of miracles, ceasing to leak once they had pressure bandages in place.  He'd need liquids as soon as he could be trusted to drink without choking, and Sam looked around for...yep, the minibar.  God he despised fraternities.

It took a second to figure out the combination (he'd thought the frat brothers could manage something a little tougher than 0-0-0, but maybe not), and when he turned back around, he was swamped in a prickly sensation of intrusion.  The impala ( _name_ , dammit!) was leaning over Dean, one hand at Dean's cheek and the other over his heart, and it wasn't fair, Sam was Dean's brother, he couldn't be the intruder here.

Anger made his voice sharper than intended when he smacked two water bottles down on the bedside table.  "So, what should I call you?"

The man didn't look up for a moment, and when he did, it was obvious that he was just recalling Sam's presence.  "What?"

"Well, you know, _'baby'_ was always Dean's thing, _'car'_ could get weird...ooh, what about 'himpala'?"  Sam laughed bitterly, even while the back of his brain suggested that annoying the big man who was formerly made of steel might be a bad idea.  But his jibe was met with nothing more than a slight frown.

"Does it matter?  Car is fine until Dean awakes, and then he will decide."

Which was just so weird Sam didn't even want to consider it.  Of course, so was calling an almost-seven-foot man 'car'.  "Um...how about Carl?"

The impala blinked once.  "Again, does it..."

"Matter?  Yeah, I think it does."  Sam tried to sound tough rather than petulant as he sat down on the opposite side of the bed, reaching out to touch Dean in a semi-conscious claim.  "Because we're going to have a little chat now, Carl, and it's easier if we both have names.  Since, you know, we both seem to have sentience."

"Yes."  Carl turned slightly, switching positions so that one hand still rested over Dean's heart while the other grabbed a bottle of water.  "We are both self-aware." There was something almost sarcastic in the voice.

"And..." Sam prompted.

"And you're probably wondering how that happened."

Sam leaned in.  "Give the car a cigar!"

In the long silence that followed, Sam had just begun to weigh 'worth it to drag it out of him?' against 'possible to drag it out of him?'. He'd come out on the 'probably not possible' side, but part of him wasn't willing to give up. It was that part of him that said, "Have you always--" just as Carl said, "The first thing I remember, Dean said, 'Well, it's just you and me, babe.'"

The way the deep voice rumbled out those words, they sounded almost mystical. 

In the beginning was the word, and the word was Dean's.

"We were sitting in a parking lot of a bus depot, and Dean was gripping the steering wheel so hard I could almost feel it. I _could_ feel Dean...feel him down to my wiring. I could feel the way he was holding himself tight, the way his grip on me was like an anchor, keeping him from going after what he wanted but couldn't have."

"What--"

"He said, 'We can check on him...he'll be okay, anyway. Smart, and pretty damn well trained. He'll be okay,' Dean reassured himself, pretending to reassure me, and I knew what he felt, even if I didn't know anything else. Nothing else but Dean."

"You mean...the bus stop? When I..."

Carl's hand stroked gently, an inch or less, in a slow circle over Dean's heart. "Maybe it was because it was the first time he was really alone, the first time he felt there was nothing left. Maybe that was strong enough to call me into...being. I don't know. I was barely aware that I was aware. I just felt Dean seeping into me like sun on my chassis on a summer day. Something I didn't remember but would later know."

He didn't look up, just recited his history in a low, soft voice, as if telling Dean a bedtime story. "We went back to the hotel. He left me in the parking lot, which already bothered me although I didn't know why. I had senses, but not like," his hand tightened gently on Dean's chest, fingers slightly denting the smooth skin before releasing, "not like this. It's like they were somehow only attached to Dean. When he left me, I felt empty...and blind and deaf. But not deaf enough."

This was all too weird, and Sam didn't prompt him for a long moment, thinking instead of all the curses and spells he knew, and how none of them could turn sheer longing into reality without any other intervention. When the silence became too deep, he looked up to see something he didn't want to recognize on the other man's face.

"What? What happened?"

Carl's voice rumbled, deep and gentle, as Dean twitched slightly under his hand and then fell still.  "I didn't know what I was hearing. I don't even know now if I was hearing it, or just somehow feeling it through Dean, but it was...it wasn't nice."  The strangely prim words sounded incredibly weird coming from a six-and-a-half-foot god dressed as a Chippendale.  "Then, before this," his free hand gestured vaguely at his now-human form, "I didn't really feel pain, just an echo of what Dean felt.  But it was a strong echo."

Dean shifted again, moaning softly, and Carl leaned down to whisper something soft, loving.  Dean's movements stilled again almost instantly, and Sam felt something hot and painful twist in his guts at that sign of trust.

"An echo of what?" he asked, abruptly.

"I still don't know for sure."  Carl shrugged, and Sam decidedly did not notice the shift of light along the silken ebony skin.  "But when he came back out, sat in the driver's seat, he was shaking.  It was pretty overwhelming. A crash course--" _no pun intended_ , Sam thought, "--in human pain.  The sick agony from the bus stop was layered now under anger and anguish and...well, I figured out later there was physical pain as well, but at the time it was all I could do to sort out all this new input.  Dean was shaking so badly he almost couldn't get the keys in my ignition, and between attempts he leaned against me, against the door or the steering wheel, and his breathing felt like rumble-strips, like going off the road onto a rocky shoulder.  His thoughts were like a narrow road over a sheer drop, and his emotions were like driving for hours in the wrong gear."

Carl shrugged again.  "I can't explain it, even now that I have human feelings.  It was overwhelming how much he hurt, and then he started talking."  He paused, looking sideways at Sam.  "He wouldn't want you to know this."

"Yeah, what else is new?"  Sam looked down at his unconscious brother.  "Pretty much standard that I learn the really important things from a third party."  Like his fucking _car_ , he didn't add.  

Carl must have come to a decision, because after only the briefest of pauses the matter-of-fact recital continued.  "It was a half-delirious mess of broken statements, and I began to realize that something more was wrong than just grief.  He said things like, 'Don't care if he doesn't want to see us,' and 'Can get a job, keep an eye on him,' and 'know when I'm not fucking wanted' and 'don't care anyway'"--weirdly, Carl's voice lightened as he quoted Dean, and Sam could almost hear his brother's voice in the broken phrases.  

"What happ--"

"I remember he said, 'my fault, _not my fault dammit'_ , and even as new as I was, I could tell he meant both statements.  He told me, 'We're going after Sammy, babe' and I could feel his hopes and his fears. How we would pass you on the road and you would tumble out of the bus into his arms, how we would find you in California and you would tell him to leave, how we would skulk in the shadows and watch you, like a street-kid on the edges of a playground."

Standing up so abruptly he accidentally shook the bed, Sam loomed for a second and then moved rapidly to stand by the wall, away from Dean and the quiet, taunting voice.  "What _happened_?  What happened between Dad and Dean?  Dad was furious when we left, but he didn't try to hit me or anything...hell, he didn't even know I was really leaving then..."  

_ Shit _ .  Oh hell.  _Dad hadn't believed he was leaving for good...until Dean came back and told him._   Sam didn't think about that any longer than he had to, because there were so many ideas more important than Dad right now.  

_ Dean _ .  Dean was going to come after him.  Dean wanted to be with him.  "Why didn't he come?  Fuck...I practically _begged_ him.  Told him we could use my stipend, get an apartment.  He could get work, whatever.  Why the hell didn't he come?"

Those strange silver eyes glinted again as Carl met his gaze over Dean's body.  "He tried, but he couldn't."

" _Why?_   Some Daddy-guilt--"

"The car wouldn't start.

Sam honestly didn't know he was going around the bed and for Carl's throat until they were both up against the wall. Carl was fucking _huge_ , but Sam had years of loss and righteous anger behind him, and hell, what does a car know about hand-to-hand anyway, Sam was going to _kill_ him, tear him apart for _keeping_ Dean, for keeping him _away_ \--

"Sammy?"

They fell apart as suddenly as they had slammed into the wall, and Sam didn't think of anything but Dean as he shoved himself forward, pushing ahead to fall onto the side of the bed recently vacated by a soon-to-be-dead anthropomorphized impala. "Hey, Dean, I'm here."

"Sa--?" Dean's eyes rolled up, and Sam was sure he was out again, but somehow Dean hung on to consciousness, his hand clutching weakly at the sheets and then Sam's arm as Sam put himself in the path of the blind, searching grasp. 

"It's okay, Dean. You're gonna be fine; I'm fine...we're all okay."

"We--" This time his eyes managed to open, and Sam watched as Dean's gaze flickered around the room, coming back to rest on him. "You 'kay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's okay, man," Sam felt it like a kick in the gut when Dean's eyes left his, coming to rest over his shoulder. Damn quiet car.

"What--?" 

"--the hell, right?" Sam shook his head, completely at a loss for how to explain this. 

But then Carl said, low and urgent, "Dean," and Sam saw the recognition flicker across Dean's face. Disbelief, yes...but definitely recognition.

"You're...are you?"

"You know me, Dean," Carl said, in what Sam couldn't help but categorize as a truly obnoxiously earnest tone. It did something for Dean, though, who relaxed a little, something like wonder dawning in his eyes.

"Jesus. You're--" Dean closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and somehow when he opened his eyes again, gave Carl a long look up and down, Sam didn't think it was purely questioning any more. 

He'd seen that once-over of Dean's a million times before, although never for a guy. Cars, yes, though...so...Sam shook his head, trying not to follow that thought to its natural conclusion.

His position at Dean's side pretty much blocked the "sit by the bedside" option, but Carl walked past him, moving to stand, then kneel beside Dean's shoulder. Reaching out, Carl again laid his hand against Dean's cheek, and this time Sam could watch as Dean breathed in, closing his eyes and turning almost involuntarily into Carl's caress.

_ Fuck  _ that. If Dean needed time alone with his fucking car, far be it from Sam to stand--sit--in the way. "I'm gonna go...get some ice...or something." He was very aware of the fact that neither of the other two men had either needed or heeded the excuse. Dean's hand clung to his wrist for a second, but Sam pulled away sharply, out the door before he could hear that Dean hadn't called him back.

He really intended to stay away _(until Dean missed him)_ for as long as he could, but Sam found himself as unable to stomach a frat-house now as he had been back at Stanford.  There was only so much insight into the male mind that he could handle, and after a few queasy minutes he gave up even foraging in the kitchen, instead grabbing some gatorade and heading back to the bedroom.  Dean was recovering from strangulation and two stab wounds...presumably there was only so much Sam could be interrupting.

He paused outside the door, hidden in the shadows of the hallway, to make sure he wasn't...oh hell, to watch, okay?  Carl had moved from his position kneeling by the bed to sit again, looming over Dean.  Dean was propped up a bit more against the headboard, which in Sam's opinion was a bad call considering how pale he still was, but probably understandable.  Sam had the urge to be as tall as possible around Carl as well.

Any thoughts of barging in were quickly dispelled by the first words he heard from Dean:  "I think I owe you an apology."  

That kind of apocalyptic event merited more eavesdropping.

Carl chuckled, a low, rich sound that Sam absolutely did not feel anywhere but his eardrums.  From the way Dean shifted slightly, the same might not be true for him.  "For calling me baby?  I liked it.  For assuming I was female?"  He shrugged.  "I've got nothing against females."

"Oh hell...neither do I, trust me!"  Sam watched as the familiar grin flashed across Dean's face.  "Dude...you're a dude!" he quoted, and he must have seen the movie at a drive-in, because Carl laughed with him.  "But hey, I got no problem with dudes, either. Which...uh...you're probably aware of, huh?"

Carl leaned in and _what the hell?_   _What the hell did Dean just say?_

Probably what Sam thought Dean had just said, because otherwise the way Carl was leaning in was a mistake, Dean would take you out if you even suggested...

...or maybe he wouldn't.  Sam couldn't drag his eyes off the tableau, Carl braced over Dean, leaning in, their lips coming together and _jesus, that was tongue_ , _oh god he was scarred for life..._

 

Dean was frenching his _car_.  


	2. Chapter 2

Sam was just considering whether he should claw out his own eyeballs or maybe take a picture (blackmail forever!)  Now that he thought of it-- _was forced to think of it_ \--Carl looked like something straight out of gay porn (Jess's evil friend again) and the two of them just kept kissing, slowly, softly, like a really _really_ weird take on _Car and Driver_.  

Eyeball-clawing was obviously the only option.

But then, thank the god of loose jeans, the two of them broke apart (obviously even the most-finely tuned carburetor needed oxygen, and Dean was looking kind of ragged.)  Sam almost mistook the next words for Carl's...he'd never heard Dean's voice so low and, well, sexy.  "I got _nothing_ against dudes.  Or you."  He cleared his throat, panting a little in the aftermath of the kiss.  "But I got a lot against guys who...” he bit his lip “…against _abusers_."  

Sam had seen that face a million times before, and it never got better.  Dean's guilt and self-recrimination face, not to be mistaken with his game-face or his poker-face...neither of which was as good as Dean thought they were.  

Dean's hands shook a bit as he reached up, running gentle fingers down Carl's shoulders and arms.  It should have looked odd, such a tender gesture for a hulking man, but Sam felt suddenly intrusive for the first time since he'd started intruding.

"This where I hit you?"

Leaning back, Carl took Dean's wandering fingers between his own giant hands.  "It doesn't work that way. It's not like you were just kissing my front grill, either."

Dean smiled, a weak reflection of his usual shit-eating grin.  "Yeah, whatever.  I hurt you pretty bad that time. Hell, I'd been neglecting you before that, Dad saw that.  And then the crash wasn't enough, I had to act like some bastard boyfriend who takes his shit out on--"

Carl leaned in and shut Dean up, and Sam thought for a brief, bitter-sweet second that he should take notes, that if he ever managed to get Dean to talk, this would be the right way to stop him.  But then _tongues again_ and yeah, maybe not.

"I didn't feel physical pain, then," Carl said, manfully keeping his train of thought through a marathon kissing session that had even Sam scrambling to retrace the conversational tracks.  "I felt some of what you felt, but not...a car doesn't have skin or nerves.  I didn't feel it, except for feeling your grief and your anger."

"Still a rotten thing to do.  I wasn't raised that way."

Carl moved abruptly, then settled back into a lounging position over Dean.  "Maybe not, but then...you forgave the same thing once in someone else."

"I didn't--"

"You forgave your father, _that_ night, my first night.  Oh," Carl paused.  "I told Sam, not you."

"Told Sam what?"

"The night I was...born, I guess.  The night you dropped him off."

Dean's face closed off like the impala's trunk slamming shut, hiding all the interesting stuff on the inside.  "You told Sam?"

"I told him it was the first thing I remember, the night he--"

"Left."  Dean's voice was cold.

"Yes."  Carl tilted his head to the side.  "And that night you went back, and luckily your father didn't have a tire-iron, because I doubt you would have held up as well as I did."

Sam had to give Carl credit: if he'd wanted to distract Dean from bitter memories of Sam's desertion, he couldn't have found a better way.  Dean's gaze snapped back from the distant past they'd been contemplating, and again his hand came up, this time to trace along Carl's cheekbone and jaw.  "Dammit...can't believe I did that to you, my gorgeous gi-guy," he flushed a little at the almost-slip, and his 'girl' laughed at him, a rich, masculine laugh that quickly put any gender-doubts to rest.

"I never forgave you because there was nothing to forgive." The voice dropped lower, into Barry White territory. "But...you could make it up to me."

Sam recognized his cue to either enter or leave (heck, the prompter must have been screaming for a while now, he'd missed so many previous cues), but Dean's words held him in place when he actually admitted, "Not much use to you, now." Typically, Dean's voice held a tenuous mixture of bravado over guilt, horny over hangdog, because of course he blamed himself for not being at full sexual peak less than an hour after being strangled and stabbed. 

Sam was again aware of tongues and wandering hands and just no. No and no, it was time to leave, this was wrong--

"But I could take care of you," Dean said, voice low and growly and not at all hot in a new and previously unknown way, and Sam grunted a little, soft in the back of his throat, and stayed where he was. Dean had taken care of him all his life, but he'd never heard this voice before, and while he was mostly glad, a part of him could barely see through the green mist of bitter jealousy.

"Let me take care of you, baby," Dean said, and Sam wanted to step up and stop this, because he could hear the exhaustion in Dean's voice, the stubborn through-the-pain, one-more-for-the-corps shit that Dad instilled in him. In the middle of a hunt, Dean would sneak out at night with touch-up paint and wax because Dad snapped at him. And, okay, Sam could think of a hundred examples that starred Sam, too, when he'd taken advantage of Dean's guilt-tripping because it was way easier than reasoning with the jerk. But he didn't like to see it now.

Carl's voice interrupted Sam’s half-step forward. "You always take care of me, Dean." It was low, soft, and silky, like melted dark chocolate, and Sam could have told him that mere logic and truth could not sidetrack a DeanWinchesterGuiltrip, patent pending. Dean seemed to still be reaching down to do something Sam did not want to think about, and then Sam also had to ignore the way Carl raised his hand from where his arm was under Dean and caught Dean's wrists. 

It was a lot to ignore, and Sam almost missed it when Carl spoke again, so intent was he on ignoring the way the long, strong fingers of Carl's hand circled both of Dean's wrists without even having to squeeze hard. "You always take care of me," Carl repeated, and this time Dean fell still. Sam had felt most of the blood in his body head south at those words, too, so he wasn't surprised at Dean's sudden cooperation.

"You take care of me on the road. Gas before food, and you pretend it's because I'm a weapon, but we both know premium isn't always necessary, and food usually is." 

Lowering his voice till Sam had to strain to ignore it, Carl continued, "You take care of me when you find the best mechanic, when you hover around like a worried husband in the maternity ward. You take care of me with the best wax, and the best detailing--"

"I haven't always--" Dean tried, and then Sam was most definitely not watching intently nor taking mental notes as Carl employed his incredibly effective Dean-silencing technique again.

"You _always_ take care of me," Carl rumbled again when he finally pulled away, and Sam could sympathize: you had to repeat even the simple concepts a bunch of times to get through to Dean sometimes. "Every thought you have of me is like a hand down my chassis, like cool water on a warm day, like premium gas." Dean laughed quietly, and Carl smiled but hushed him immediately. "You think of me like a mix of lover and family and home and...like somehow you don't deserve me--"

"I don't--"

"--when you win me every minute of every day. You think of me like some sort of prize, but you never understand that you earned it. You deserve this, Dean. Let me take care of you for a change."

Dean moaned, a low, wrenching sound that Sam somehow didn't think had anything to do with the location of Carl's other hand.  This might be the kinkiest scene Dean had ever experienced. Not fucking his car: Sam had no doubt the impala had figured in more than one threesome. But lying there, being told he was wonderful and worthy of love... Jesus, that was practically _twisted_ for Dean.

Sam didn't ache bone-deep--not at all--for the fact that Dean had to hear it from his _car_ , that Sam had never had the chance to say all that and more. 

Watching his brother make out with another man, with his _car_ , might be fucked up, but watching this? That was just wrong.

Sam took a shaky step back. He couldn’t watch this. He didn’t want to watch Dean getting everything he wanted, everything he needed, from someone else. He’d always known Dean loved his car. He just never thought he’d need to be jealous about it.

Another shamed step took him out of the room, back towards the hallway. He could go back to the kitchen, find something easy to eat. Give them a few (hours) minutes…

He didn’t glance out the window at the end of the hall, so it was sheer good luck that a furtive movement caught his eye. Another second and he would have been on the stairs and they all would have been screwed because, dammit, that bastard Hallicourt was at the end of the drive, crouched low beside the ornamental hedge, talking on his cell and gesturing frantically at the house.

What the hell had they been thinking, leaving him downstairs? Of course he was calling for reinforcements. He was a damn demon-worshipper.

Sam muttered a curse, noticing another movement at the far edge of the smoothly-rolled and striped lawn. A bunch of the fratboys were returning. And those weren’t croquet mallets in their hands.

“Dammit.” Spinning on his heel, he raced back to the room, averting his eyes out of politeness and self-preservation as he paused at the doorway. “We’ve got trouble. We’ve got…we’ve got to get out of here, now.” 

Risking a glance, he saw that Carl was still sitting on the side of the bed, and whereas Dean looked thoroughly kissed, he seemed to be still wearing as many clothes as Sam had left him after first-aid. Made you question Dean’s pride in his car’s acceleration. Overhyped again.

Sam grabbed his weapons from where he had dropped them earlier, guessing from Dean’s muffled grunt of pain that Carl was performing a similar snatch-and-grab on his brother. Great. At least one of them could take the car, he thought absently, trying to ignore the thought that if they didn’t get off the grounds quick, they’d be back on that damn altar.

“Come on, this way!” he whispered, which was stupid because first of all, there was no one to hear them—yet—and second of all, there was only one way down. But it made him feel better to do something, since as soon as they got to the bottom of the stairs it became very obvious that he was going to be useless. 

The massed fratboys had made it to the end of the drive, and maybe Carl could run quick enough (with Dean? He’d never leave Dean, Sam could at least rest assured in that) to evade them, but Sam recognized at least two of the faces from the university’s football team. Fine time for Dad’s prejudice against soccer to prove true.

Well, before he was tackled, he could at least hold them off, give Carl a fighting--running chance. “I’ll cover you. Take Dean out of here,” Sam said, raising his voice as Dean tried to argue. “There’s no time to discuss it!” Turning, he ignored Dean’s furious face, looking instead up into silver eyes. “Carl, you have to get him out of here.”

“Put me down. Put me down, dammit!” Dean shouted, sounding stronger than he had any right to and really pissed. Sam could have ignored it, but it looked like Carl couldn’t: either that, or the weak elbow to Carl’s ribs that Dean managed was more painful than it looked.

Dean doubled over as soon as his feet hit the ground, and Sam lurched forward to grab his arm, cursing softly and methodically to himself because they were so screwed.  Sam didn’t want them to die like this, such a stupid way to die.

When Dean managed to pull himself half upright, most of his weight was against Sam, with just a little relief coming from the fact that Carl had stepped in, huge hands grabbing at Dean’s waist. This time Sam couldn’t look away as Dean reached up, caressing Carl’s face and pulling him down with— _dammit_ —bloodied hands. Looked like the arm wound had re-opened.   

Dean paused before their lips met, and Sam found himself bracing his brother a little more securely. Weird as it was to be part of it, he wanted Dean to get this last moment of affection before they all were demon-chow, so he tried to ignore the hot, sick feeling in his gut as Dean whispered, “I’m sorry,” and pulled Carl down for a kiss. Soft and sweet this time, nothing sexy, but Sam could feel his entire body pulsing with embarrassed heat nonetheless.

As Dean pulled back, one hand still on Carl’s high cheekbone, the former car shook his head slowly. “Don’t be. Dean—“ he smiled, warm and loving and even Sam felt like he could bask in the left-over glow of that, so all-encompassing an adoration that he almost missed Dean’s quiet word.

“Good-bye.”

Dean lifted his hand, fingers spreading oddly like he was releasing a moth, and Sam felt a rush of air, a shift of space, and then he almost dropped Dean.   Dean must have been expecting it, because he staggered but didn’t fall, still leaning in to Sam until Sam got his wits straight enough to grab hold again. 

Sam processed what was standing in front of him, dark and sleek and gorgeous, and then propped Dean against the door of the impala.

It was too crazy to think about, because Dean didn’t know how to break the spell, he couldn’t, so how could he…? What the hell had happened? 

“Get in, get in,” Dean was muttering to him, words slurring in exhaustion, and Sam obeyed blindly, wrenching the door open—not locked, of course not—and easing Dean as quickly and painlessly into the passenger seat as possible. He obviously didn’t manage the “painlessly” thing very well, because Dean gasped, went white, and his eyes rolled up. Passed-out again, and it was way easier to slide his unconscious body into the car than it should have been, but Sam tried not to think of how it was almost like the seat was… _helping_.

He hesitated after running around to the driver’s side, only a second but damn, he was about to climb into _Carl_ which was just insane. But then the engine revved—no keys in the ignition, why was he not surprised—and the door almost caught him in the crotch as it swung open. “Okay, I can take a hint,” Sam growled, just barely pulling his foot in before the door slammed shut. He didn’t waste time trying to steer or accelerate; Carl obviously had that down. He did look over at Dean and was not surprised to see Dean’s seatbelt on and his head resting against his jacket against the window. 

Sam figured he would never be surprised again.

So he internally described himself as ‘flummoxed’ when the car took off straight down the driveway. Not that it wasn’t the right move, but Dean had always hesitated to use his baby as a battering ram. Sam wasn’t sure of what he was seeing until he felt the seatbelt slip round him, clicking into place as the engine roared louder and the fratboys began to scatter in panic ahead of them. 

The gates were heavy wrought-iron, but luckily the returning attackers hadn’t quite managed to get them closed. Sam winced in sympathy as they rebounded heavily off Carl’s hood, but their progress didn’t even slow. Still, there he could hear the scream of torn metal, and he glanced over at his brother. Dean’s face was tight with pain: Sam couldn’t tell if it was some symbiotic thing, or just the effects of the rough exit. Leaning over, he put his hand on Dean’s cheek, drifting his thumb down to rest on Dean’s pulse. 

Dean turned his head slightly, blindly seeking comfort. Even over the roar of the engine and the rapidly-receding shouts of the demon-worshippers, Sam had no trouble making out Dean’s soft moan. 

And even though Carl had just saved them, even though Dean had just given up a miracle to save his little brother, Sam couldn’t help but be selfishly glad that Dean’s unconscious whisper was still _his_ name. 

About ten minutes down the road, Sam was distractedly wondering whether it was time to pull over and see if he could coax Dean back into consciousness when the car answered the question for him, decelerating slowly but definitely and pulling off onto the rocky verge.  It said something about the last few hours that Sam immediately winced at the thought of bare feet on gravel...then he shook himself and leaned over to do the same to Dean.

"Dean, hey man, you with me?"

Dean's soft groan was only audible because the engine chose that moment to die.  

 "Hey, wake up."  Unbuckling himself from his seatbelt, Sam slid across the seat until he could rest his hand against Dean's throat, absently checking the steady heartbeat while turning Dean's face toward him.  "Come on, Dean, time to check in."

"Sa--?"  Dean's eyes fluttered open, and Sam was caught for a moment by the unguarded desperation in their green depths.  Without conscious thought, Sam leaned closer, watching as Dean relaxed at the sight.  "Sammy."

"Yeah, Dean, it's me.  We're okay."  He didn't know how to bring up the fact that, yes, the _two of them_ were okay, but they were _sitting_ in Carl.  Jeez, what a thought.

"Sammy," Dean said again, smiling as his eyes drifted shut and his face turned into the palm of Sam's hand.  Sam stayed where he was, frozen by the implicit trust in the gesture.

Well, it wasn't a full mental check, but then, Dean had been stabbed and strangled, not concussed.  Pulling his hand back, Sam decided to consider it enough.  

It took a few seconds of non-movement for Sam to realize that his magical self-driving car was not going to start up on its own.  "Um...Carl?" Sam muttered, feeling monumentally stupid.  "You there?"

No answering roar of the engine, and the seatbelt remained limply where it had fallen.  

"Uh...but..."  Sam shrugged to himself; talking to the car now wasn't any stupider than it had been for Dean before.  At least Sam knew the right gender for any pronouns, now.  "But I bet you can still hear me.  Just wanted to say thank you."  Actually, he still wanted to say a lot more.  Like _how dare you keep him from me_ and _he's mine now_.  But it seemed a little petty, what with Dean back by his side and Carl nothing but a hunk of metal again.

Well, maybe a little more than a hunk of metal.  "Thank you," Sam repeated, patting the steering wheel while rolling his eyes at himself.  There was no answer, but Dean muttered something softly, snuggling further into the corner of the car.  Sam wasn't going to worry about the details of Dean's soliloquy...he'd heard his name again, and he could build on that.  

If he really wanted Dean to be happy, Carl wouldn't stand in the way, right?  

When Sam turned the key in the ignition, the engine roared immediately to life, like the ultimate affirmative.  It somehow required a response, and Sam added under his breath:  "I'll take better care of him.  Promise."

They pulled back out onto the road, smooth as silk, with nothing but history in the rearview mirror.  


End file.
